


We Form Our Fates

by Quills_For_Wings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fate won't win this time, Johnlock - Freeform, Mollcroft, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, Soulmate AU, Soulmate AU gone terribly wrong, Warstan, but it's mostly gonna be a minor part so if you don't really like the pairing this is still for you, have fun dearies, just a bit lol, mythea, one is platonic, the other is romantic, which may or may not be platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6919666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quills_For_Wings/pseuds/Quills_For_Wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate has always intended every generation of human beings to have a mark on their palms giving them a clue on who they were destined to meet. However, Fate never intended to be so strict with the rules of her own game. She makes exceptions--always, to the point that very few understand her patterns, if there are any at all. </p><p>But the capitalist world has conveniently forgotten that. The message all over the world is simple: Soulmates are meant to marry! If you don't have one, what a shame; if you break Fate's 'rules' and marry another, then double shame. </p><p>Somewhere, in her faraway realm, Fate is laughing at human stupidity. She's also laughing at a certain Holmes brother--or maybe she should also laugh at the other two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Less-than-Stellar Start

**Author's Note:**

> Hallo, dear Reader! You can call me Q, like the letter XD. This is my first work here in AO3, and since it's not yet beta-ed, feel free to point any confusing bits so I can edit it before the next update. :)

Charlie and Violet Holmes did everything they could to ensure that their two sons would never have trouble with this soulmate business. Since she _was_ the smarter one, Violet named her eldest Sherrinford, her second child Mycroft Charles, and her youngest William Sherlock Scott. All had peculiar names, and she hoped against all odds that perhaps their soulmates’ parents had the same logic.

When her children were born, there were no names on their palms yet, and Mrs. Holmes wasn’t alarmed. It was more typical for girls to be born with soul marks, because Fate seemed to have a knack for pairing older boys with younger girls. Fate also had an uncanny ability to spoil plans for easier soulmate searching.

Sherlock had gotten his mark first, at the age of two, and it was _John,_ written in stock print—she still thought it a little too bland.

“Don’t be upset, dear,” said Mr. Holmes before he broke into a fit of dry coughs. “At least it’s easier for that John to find Sherlock.”  

Mrs. Holmes crossed her arms and sighed. “Maybe it is,” she muttered in resignation before handing her husband a cup of steaming tea. “I wonder when Myc and Ford will get their marks. Myc’s already nine, and Ford will be fourteen next month. I’ve read that boys usually get their marks from ages three to eight.”

Mr. Holmes clearly did not want to speak in his current condition, but he replied, “That’s only if those boys’ soulmates are born three to eight years after them. Just…don’t sweat it, dear; that’s Fate’s business.” He let out a soft sigh before saying, “I may not be smart, but I know that we’re all just pawns in this little soulmate business.”

*-*-*-*-*-*

A year after Sherlock got his soul mark, Mycroft had received his. The only thing was this: he had never even seen it properly. The searing pain of being marked in the palm could have been remedied easily with painkillers and anesthetic patches, but neither were available when Mycroft was sharpening knives manually as a form of punishment.

It was an ordinary punishment; every time Mycroft tormented Sherlock to the point of tears, Mycroft had to either sharpen the knives for Mummy with a stone or spoil Sherlock the whole day. And Mycroft often opted to sharpened the knives.  

The soul marking just had to be conveniently right when Mycroft was sharpening a rather dull blade.

“Why do you have to be born _now_?” he muttered under his breath, cursing his apparently newborn soulmate. The pain was making his hands shaky, and he could not leave the kitchen to grab the painkillers in the bathroom; it was a rule that he could not, under any circumstances whatsoever, leave the kitchen until he sharpened all the knives.

So it only made sense for Mycroft to hurry his chore, and it worked for the next knife. Unfortunately, on the very next one, the mark of his palm was searing with absolute pain, and that was the precise moment that Mycroft’s hand slipped and sliced deeply into his marked palm, causing both red blood and dark soul mark ink to ooze and mix macabrely. The pain had tripled and was now accompanied with the fear of infection.

“Mummy!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Mummy, I cut myself!”

Since his mother was only upstairs, Mycroft was heard and seen to quickly enough by his mother, who helped him clean and stitch his wound with the medical kit that she had stocked just as well as a proper doctor could have.

Mr. Holmes, in all the commotion, muttered, “This is why we make exceptions in the rules, dear.” He knew that had Mycroft been allowed to take a break to make a run for the medicine, the boy wouldn’t be in such a bloody mess—literally and figuratively.

For all the stupidity he claimed to have, Mr. Holmes knew that soul marks could be irrevocably damaged if the palm was sliced deeply enough during marking.

Mycroft knew this as well, and no amount of consolation could make him calm. He stared at his wound for hours on end the following day, trying to make out the unrecognizable letters, trying to see if he could still figure the name out, wondering childishly if maybe Fate will give him another chance and mark his palm again.

 _Of course not_ , his logic mocked him.

“Why’re you so obsessed with that mark?” asked Sherlock incredulously. He was already speaking complicated sentences for his age; his mother could accept no less. “It’s not like that incident yesterday will wipe it. I’m sure it’ll heal with the mark intact.”

Mycroft peered at his brother like the latter had suddenly grown a stupid, fat head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he scoffed coolly and perhaps a bit bitterly. “I’m the smart one, Sherlock.”

Over the coming days, weeks, months, and eventually years, Mycroft found himself saying the last sentence more and more and more, and after each time, Sherlock drifted away farther and farther and farther.

*-*-*-*-*-

Mycroft never got to figuring out what his mark really was. Only the first letter managed to survive the catastrophe in the kitchen, and Mycroft wasn’t even sure if it was a whole letter or half of it. If it were the former, he was sure it would be an A, but if it were the latter, perhaps it would be an M or an N. The problem was that he could not determine whether the former or the latter was true.

Sometimes he would study the ruined mark, mulling over it, thinking of the thousand names that could start with A, M, or N. More often than not, however, he ignored it, avoiding conversations about it all throughout his schooling years, avoiding curious people, and avoiding relationships.

He _did_ fail once on the last part though. In his third year of university, he was smitten by and eventually courted a charming lady named Anneliese.

This Anneliese Grant was a year above him, but Mycroft was quite sure she was just his age. The young woman was attractive in her own right—creamy white skin, an eternal pink blush on her cheeks, striking green eyes, and strawberry blonde hair that cascaded gracefully in curls down her back—and always had this charm that caught the heart of many a young man—Mycroft’s included.

He didn’t know if her palm did have his name, or if his hand originally even had hers, but there was this weird fluttering in his chest every time he saw, talked to, or thought of her.

Mummy indeed always told him to follow his heart, and he did.

He was, admittedly, a bit of a stalker. Sometimes he’d see one of her palms daintily cover up the other one in an attempt to hide the name, but on one occasion he swore that he saw the first two letters of his name pop up. That was when he decided to finally finish his courting and get her to answer him and reveal the damn name she had. 

He reserved a nice restaurant on the same day he saw the two letters, and he had gotten his long-unused bottle of cologne out. Flowers were bought with the Victorian flower language in mind, and violinists in the class were kidnapped and bribed with anything from money to homework.

“You…really shouldn’t have bothered, Holmes,” Anneliese said as soon as she and Mycroft were seated. “I just don’t…swing _that_ way.”

She promptly took her glove off and revealed a dark _Mylene_ on her lifeline. Anneliese tossed a sheepish and apologetic grin at Mycroft, and added, “I appreciate your efforts, but I can’t reciprocate them.” With that, she rose and left.

And Mycroft? Well, he decided to never follow that love and soulmate stuff, and accepted that maybe the horrid accident a decade ago had rendered him officially unable to find “The One”.

Just like Sherrinford. Up to now, Mycroft’s poor brother still didn’t have a mark on him, and now that the bloke was nearing thirty their parents no longer bothered to sugarcoat their words. Fate had neglected him.        

Of course, young and hopeful Mycroft refused to be associated with Sherrinford and both be branded as ‘Markless’. Mycroft had a mark—he just couldn’t understand it. Surely, someone would have his rare name and he’d accept that person into his life without checking his palm because who else is named Mycroft?

Unlike Sherrinford, who apparently had no one with his name. Unlike Sherrinford, who looked at his blank palm on his twenty-ninth birthday years later and allegedly flung himself off a cliff, never to be seen again. Unlike Sherrinford, who lived his adult years in depression because he just cared too much.

Now, years later, in 2016, as a “minor” government official in charge of Britain, Mycroft thought that his older brother’s death was darkly convenient. Less fools in the gene pool. Caring was a terrible trait to have in the family.


	2. Not Different, But Not Quite the Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Here's another chapter, and I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as you enjoyed the first one ^^
> 
> (Although any notes about how to characterize Mycroft better is much appreciated. I just can't get my head around that guy XD)

Once upon a time, Molly Anne Hooper had the name “David” written in messy cursive, and she always wondered who among her classmates named David bore her name too. Nonetheless, she often took the name for granted. After all, she was still a child, and it was quite unlikely that her parents will let her marry if she was lucky enough to meet that David bloke before she hit eighteen. For the time being, David was just a name on her palm, nothing more until she saw that David herself.

She never did.

Two weeks after her thirteenth birthday, she woke up and found her palm blank. When she checked the other palm, it was also blank. Both undersides of her hand looked so pristine that it seemed that she was never marked at all. No one could’ve guessed that there was a word in dark ink embedded in her ivory skin the last night.

Of course, she acted like any thirteen-year-old would. Screeched in the morning. Told her parents. Cried in her room when she was told that the sudden name disappearance meant her soulmate’s death. Wore gloves all throughout her teenage years not to hide the name, but to hide the lack of it. Thought that Fate was secretly chuckling at her misfortune.

Now she was an adult, she wasn’t that angsty. Sure, it sucked, but there were other things that sucked—work, taxes, and recently Sherlock’s antics. Now, as a mature adult, Molly merely covered the spot where the name should’ve been with these new things being sold called ‘Name Hiders’ and moved on with life.

On one ordinary end of the day, Molly removed the name hider strip and dropped it in the rubbish before picking Toby up and doing her usual routine—eat, do some research, TV, sleep.

It wasn’t bad, per se, but she wished she had someone to share the day with.

**--**

Molly had no inclination in participating in the soulmate-related conversations Sherlock and John had in the morgue, but she naturally had an acute sense of hearing and thus heard a good amount of the two men talking.

“What do you mean you don’t want to find her?” John half shouted a few feet behind her. “Look, Sherlock, if there’s anyone having a bad time finding their soulmate, it’s me. I have to deal with someone with the same name as you—except it also has William and Scott in it, so yeah it can’t be _you_." 

The pathologist sighed to herself and turned the coarse adjustment knob of the microscope once more. The two were always at it; they couldn't let the dead bodies have any peace. Molly thought—or, maybe knew—that Sherlock was smirking at his companion’s frustration.

She may not be a Holmes, but she knew the habits of one. Quite a bit of a tosser, really.

Molly turned off the power in her microscope to watch more of Sherlock and John’s bickering; it was somewhat amusing, if she were completely honest with herself. It was like an instant circus in a room of dead people.

“How about you, Molly?” asked John, immediately dragging the pathologist into the conversation. “Surely Sherlock’s being an arse here, not making any effort while people like us are searching for possibly harder names.”

Before Molly could even react, Sherlock was quick to reply, “I don’t think her search will be hard if she has no one to search for.”

Those words seemingly dove straight into Molly’s lungs and stole her breath away, leaving her wanting to gasp, but choosing not to lest she give away even more. “How are you s-so sure?” she tried to scoff, although it came out as more of a stammer. She hid her trembling right hand in her lab coat’s pocket, afraid that she might slap Sherlock with it.

“It was a bit of a leap in the dark, but judging from your trembling, I must be right,” said Sherlock pompously. “I’ve noticed that you never participate in conversations about soulmates—unnatural, since everyone is bound to talk about theirs at some point, even me, but you never have said a word. You also wear name hiders, which are unnecessary since your gloves usually do the job and no one judges names that much anymore; you’ll only wear them if you really don’t want anyone to see your whole palm at all.”

Sherlock went nearer to her even more. “It’s either you are hiding the lack of a name, or you’re hiding your soul mark because your soulmate told you to do so—I know you wouldn’t wear name hiders on a whim because—” he unceremoniously pulled one of Molly’s gloves off, “—the adhesive strips irritate your skin from constant use so you don’t really want to wear them but _have_ to. So, you must be hiding a lack of a name because, as I know, you have no boyfriend yet.”

By the end of his deduction, Sherlock stepped back to see the reactions. John was fuming, red in face and fist, ready to pounce on Sherlock. Molly, meanwhile, seemed to have gone paler than any of the corpses in the morgue.

“Wrong,” she said in a raspy, tear-choked voice. “You’re wrong. I don’t have to talk about soulmates or finding soulmates, because I’ve already met mine, and we’ve decided to keep it secret for a-a while, hence the name hider strips. I p-planned to reveal it to you guys after a few months, but it seems—”

Molly stopped her litany for a second and looked up to glare at Sherlock. “Is it really hard to think, or even imagine, that there’s someone who can be happy with me?”

She took a deep, shaky breath, and darted out the morgue as fast as she could. Her heart kept beating loudly and crazily, like it was getting off on its owner’s brave effort to lie in front of a master of deduction.

**---**---**---**---**---**---**

Molly decided to dump her shift onto her coworker Jim Potter—partly out of revenge for doing the same thing on her a week ago, and partly because she needed to get out of the morgue or else she’d go mad. Of course, Dr. Potter wasn’t pleased, but Molly’s ashen face was enough to convince him that she was indeed unwell.

“Just…get well, m’kay, Hooper?” he told her as he studied her deathly pale face. “I don’t want you in a morgue for another reason. Then I’ll have to do your shifts always and that’s terrible.”

A grin involuntarily appeared on Molly’s face, and she replied, “I’m not dying, Potter. Just fatigued. I’ll be back on my next shift.”

“Whatever you say,” Potter muttered, rolling his grey eyes. “See you.”

With that, Molly got out of St. Barts with all the free time she needed to relax and regain her composure. A few paces from the hospital was a bistro. It was not one she visited very often, since the prices were a bit higher and the hospital cafeteria had at least edible food, but that only meant that Sherlock can’t deduce her presence there, and avoiding Sherlock was more important than saving a few pounds. Without a second thought, Molly marched up to the store front and got in.

It was crowded, but Molly managed to find an empty table for two near the window. Despite her lack of a companion, Molly took those seats and opted to put her lab coat on the chair opposite her. In her tired, tear-soaked eyes, she swore that she saw her lab coat take shape into some sort of man, keeping her and only her company. He was quite taller than the actual lab coat, however, and Molly blinked her eyes to return to reality once more.

There was still a man sitting in front of her, although he did not wear her lab coat, opting instead of put it on his lap.

“Who’re you?” Molly asked. “What are you doing here?”

She was certain that she had never met this person before.  The bloke seemed to have rolled out of the Victorian era, with his expensive suit, pocket watch, and shrewd eyes studying her.

“Well, I should be the one asking that,” he said, almost coldly, to her. “I haven’t seen you here before. Still, it’s polite to make fr—acquaintances.”

The man extended his gloved hand. “Good morning, Dr. Hooper. I’m Mycroft Holmes.”

Great—in the attempt to escape one Holmes brother, Molly had bumped into another, one she couldn’t run from lest she be seen as rude. “Pleased to meet you.” Molly forced the words out of her mouth as she shook the elder Holmes’ hand; she hoped he wouldn’t deduce it.

“So am I, even if you really aren’t,” Mr. Mycroft Holmes replied coolly. “Has my brother been troublesome lately?”

Instantly, Molly withdrew her supposedly marked hand from Mycroft’s and hid it under the table. She mustn’t have another Holmes get another jab at her.

“I see, he’s been a menace about soul marks,” Mycroft instantly remarked. “The way you quickly hid your hand tells it all. But don’t mind him, please, Dr. Hooper.”

At that moment, a waiter passed by rolling a cart holding a cheesecake, which Mycroft just had to glance at for a second. This time, Molly did not hide the slight grin that threatened to show, and she called the attention of a waiter to order the same thing.

“Five minutes after meeting and you already know something about me,” murmured Mycroft with a grunt. “Surely you must’ve heard of Sherlock’s stories about me being fat.”

Molly couldn’t contain the grin anymore, for she had heard of Sherlock saying that his brother was a “fatty”, but she never considered that fact in ordering the cake. “Oh, I wouldn’t call you fat, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered with a lilt in her voice. “I just have a habit of giving anyone what they want.”

Soon enough, the cheesecake did materialize, and Mycroft looked at her in the eye. “In some occasions, like this, that’s a wonderful thing,” he told her lightly. Then his tone became serious. “But I insist that you not have that habit anymore, Dr. Hooper. It’s...”

He ate a forkful of the cake, and he no longer finished what he was supposed to say. “Now, the real reason I’m meeting with you,” Mycroft said as he swallowed, “isn’t just chance or coincidence. I…occupy a minor position in the government, and I was able to locate you here.”

“What do you need?” asked Molly, inwardly surprised that she had said those words to anyone other than Sherlock.

Mycroft eyed her in surprise—or, more likely, doubt—and said, “I need you to keep tabs on Sherlock. You may or may not have known this, but he had overdosed on cocaine last month. Of course, I have requested Dr. Watson to also keep an eye on him, but I reckoned that the more eyes, the better.” He added, “I can reward you a handsome amount if you’re unsure.”

“That’s…not needed, Mr. Holmes,” Molly replied swiftly. “I’ll make sure he’s fine. I always try to.”

And that was how Mycroft left the bistro with a full stomach and with a puzzle on his mind.

How could Molly Hooper care so much and not die, when all the signs said that she was exactly like Sherrinford?


	3. Southend Vacay Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!!  
> Yeah, so here's the third chapter ^^ Also, an edit I made in the first chapter:  
> 1\. Sherrinford killed himself at age 29, not 35. Sounds more dramatic to me, IDK why (and one of my uncles is 35 so I'd rather not use that age)
> 
> So...aside from that morbid thingy, all's good.
> 
> And please DO tell me anything you noticed/observed/whatnot in this chapter. I'm sure you've heard this phrase many times here on AO3, but reviews motivate writers ;)

Maybe she wasn’t like Sherrinford.

Mycroft thought about it in his office. His deductions pointed at Molly not having a soulmate, because her actions were dangerously like his older brother’s, but he decided to give her the benefit of doubt, unlike his uncouth younger sibling. After all, his deductions didn’t seem conclusive; all he could see was that Molly Hooper flinched at the concept of soulmates near him…

_Near **him** …_

Instinctively, Mycroft pulled his hand out his pocket and looked at its underside, but he immediately stuffed it back into his pocket again.

_No._

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Molly couldn’t relax. It seemed the nice conversation with Mycroft Holmes still couldn’t get her to calm down. Even Toby wouldn’t help; the creature would just snuggle itself next to her, trying to please her, but then it would crawl away, realizing that its owner wouldn’t be feeding him any time sooner.

What if they both knew? Molly knew she could never effectively lie in front of those two men, but if there was one secret she wished to keep away from those two pairs of cold, sharp eyes, it was her lack of a soul mark. Sure, it wasn’t exactly a top secret (her coworkers Meena and Dr. Potter were quite aware and frankly didn’t care), but she didn’t need another reason for Sherlock and his pals to pity her.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath as she moved toward her phone. After punching in a series of numbers, Molly put the phone to her ear and spoke as soon as the person on the other side answered her.

It was the hospital staff at St. Barts. Molly asked them a favor as quickly as she could and hung up as soon as they answered yes.

Then came another series of digits and another person on the phone.

 “Greg? It’s me, Molly—I was wondering if that offer you had is still on the table…”

Whatever that offer was, it was still available, and the amicable DI told her that she go and claim it as soon as she wished. “Just asking, though, Molls,” said Lestrade. “Why the sudden choice, though?” A slight pause. “Is everything all right? Are _you_ all right?”

Molly smiled for the first time since her encounter with Sherlock—faintly, still, but it was there. She honestly had no idea if the copper was her friend, her father, or whatnot; the concern was touching, if she let herself be honest. “Y-yeah,” she replied, mentally chiding herself for not being that convincing. “I just need to spend the three weeks that the hospital gave me.”

It wasn’t unknown that Molly was only one of the morticians to work literally all-year round, and all those missed holidays added up to a full five months. Of course, the hospital couldn’t possibly let an employee get a five-month paid leave like that; they told Molly that they’d give her shorter paid leaves once she wanted them. And she wanted three weeks to herself…

Truth be told, she promised Mycroft that she’d keep an eye on Sherlock, but…

Did she? She never promised—just said that she’d make sure she was fine, and Sherlock did seem to be his normal, obnoxious self. An overdose seemed as likely as that of a cow jumping over the moon.

“Whatever you say,” was Lestrade’s short yet worried reply. “I’ll tell Cordelia to fix up the place then. You can go there as soon as tomorrow.”

**--**

Molly got up the following day quite earlier than usual. She took a month’s change of clothes, since she might be unlucky with major spills like last time, and stuffed them as neatly as possible in the trolley bag. Toby was coaxed into his carrier. Her purse was stocked with only the stuff she needed—phone, wallet, and stuff like that.

When she arrived at the Tube station, Molly found it surprisingly not as crowded. Or maybe not so surprisingly—she had arrived there much earlier than the common Tube rider. Nevertheless, she sat down, put the carrier beside her, and sighed in relief as the train started to go.

There was a burly woman beside her who seemed friendly enough. She smiled and introduced herself. “Jane Flynn. You?”

“Molly Hooper,” said Molly with a wide beam.

They made small talk—cats, dogs, the Queen even. The conversation soon drifted into morose topics—it turned out that Jane’s father had died of the same thing Molly’s had—and tears inevitably trickled out of Molly’s eyes. Promptly, Jane offered her a handkerchief.

“Breathe into it,” she said gently. “I always bring lavender-scented towels around, in case I get myself in the middle of a sad movie or something.”

Molly smiled and nodded, murmuring her thanks, and she inhaled the pleasantly relaxing scent into her lungs.

Hours later, she was lying in the middle of a station she didn’t intend to be in. When Molly awoke, she couldn’t see much, but her luggage and cat were apparently still beside her intact. She was just about to sigh in relief when she looked up and saw a strange man kneeling beside her.

Instantly, Molly was filled with baffling panic. It didn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to figure it out—she was alone, in some station, lying near a man she never even knew.

“Miss,” said the stranger softly, almost in a whisper. “Miss, look, I wasn’t the one who drugged you.”

Molly, despite her crippling fear, had the cheek to sneer.

“Yes, it seems pretty obvious to you, but believe me, I didn’t drug you!” the man half shouted, putting both hands up. “I didn’t kidnap you, Miss, I _saved_ you—saved you from that woman who planned to make away with your stuff.”

Jane? Making away with her stuff? Molly wanted so much to laugh right at the bloke’s face, but she stopped herself lest he might actually be lying. “But Jane—”

“Jane Flynn is a notorious mugger from my town,” he replied nonchalantly. “She even got me once, so of course I know her. Got her running off when I saw you two.”

A jolt of pain went straight through Molly’s head, and she just wished that she’d wake up in her bed, with the whole thing a crazy dream. She had no idea if the man was actually telling the truth, and thinking of the many ways he wasn’t just made her head ache more and more and more.

“I’m Stanford Evergreen, by the way,” the man added, “if telling you my name can make you trust me a bit more. You can call me Ford—everyone has, really.” Ford stood up and offered his hand to Molly. “Get up. I’ll take you to my place.”

Molly’s eyes widened as she sputtered out, “Your place?”

“Southend-on-Sea, right where you’re going, right?” asked Ford, his bushy eyebrow raised in confusion. “I-I looked at your notes and everything—you’re going to Delia’s cottage?”

Out of instinct, Molly pulled her purse closer to her chest and opened it, sighing in relief upon finding nothing missing. “Delia?” she asked dumbly upon taking the man’s hand and standing up.

“Delia—Cordelia Lestrade, I believe,” said Ford. “Her brother’s a copper in London, so maybe you know her through him.”

A train was conveniently approaching, and Ford led Molly in. “I got us tickets,” he explained.

“How do you know Greg—I mean, DI Lestrade?” asked Molly once they were seated comfortably.

Ford grinned slightly. “Sometimes he visits his sister there, and we sometimes chat about a mutual acquaintance. But he rarely visits nowadays, with a divorce and whatnot.”

The ride was a bit long, and the two had arrived a bit later than Molly expected when she first left London. Then again, she _was_ drugged and all that.

Cordelia Lestrade was clearly the detective inspector’s sister. When she saw Ford and Molly near her place, she immediately recognized the tall, curly-haired man and welcomed him and his companion warmly.

“So you’re the Molly that Greg’s been talking about,” said Cordelia with a grin as she let the pair in. “Don’t mind me, but you’re a great deal better than the prima donna with her name on my brother’s palm.”

The only natural reaction Molly had was a blush that covered her cheeks and her neck. She tried giggling, but no sound came out. In her giggly schoolgirl mind, that was the most flattering thing ever, given that ex-Mrs. Lestrade was by far the most unpleasant relation of the DI that Molly had the… _pleasure_ to meet.

“You really shouldn’t mind her, Molly,” whispered Ford in her ear. “Delia thinks any girl is better than the one Fate had for Greg.” 

Since Molly’s luggage was light and Cordelia adored cats, settling in the place was relatively easier than expected. Within hours, Toby was prowling about, wondering where in the hell its owner got into again and where in the heavens was the food. The bag was unpacked, and Ford seemed willing to stay the night for dinner.

“I usually don’t bother with the visitors or anything,” said the man as he sat down next to Molly, “but I might as well help you around now that I started to.”

Cordelia came to the table with large bowl of soup and said, “You don’t need to, really, Stanford. I know you hate socializing, and you know I can take care of this young lady like my own niece.”

Ford smiled and shrugged casually. “Oh? But I want to,” he remarked, and afterwards supper began.


	4. Southend Vacay Part Two

The following day, Ford invited Molly to the movies. It wasn’t exactly extraordinary or whatnot, but Molly appreciated his allegedly rare joviality.

“I find the movies kinda odd, though,” she said upon leaving the theater.

Ford peered at her, his eyes wide with confusion. “Why? I don’t usually like romance films, but _Violetta_ was quite decent.”

Molly bowed her head, replying, “It’s not that it’s bad, but it’s not like most London movies in a sense.”

“How isn’t it so?” asked Ford.

“It just seems insensitive of me.”

“Humor me,” said Ford firmly at last, his grin giving away the fact that he wasn’t at all angry.

Molly took a deep breath before she said, “Well, it doesn’t have any mention of soulmates. The palms are blank, and it just seems surreal…to a Londoner like me, of course, maybe you Southenders just prefer—”

Her eyes looked more at the ground than at Ford, and the man frowned at her embarrassment. He playfully yet gently lifted her chin up and made a funny face. “Lighten up, Molly,” he said blithely with a chuckle escaping his lips. “Since you’re oh-so-disturbed about being curious about it, I’ll tell you when we get to the restaurant.”

The restaurant was a pretty long walk from the theatre, and Molly had nearly forgotten about the conversation when she and Ford entered. When a waiter approached and took their order, however, she noticed that he—and everyone else—was wearing some type of gloves.

“It’s not that cold here, is it?” she asked Ford a few moments later.

Ford shook his head. A mirthless laugh came from him, and he slowly took off one of his gloves before showing his right hand to Molly.

It was plainly yet inexplicably blank. Like hers.

Like everyone else’s?

“Molly, I know, it’s kinda hard to stomach the fact that there’s a whole town full of people like us,” Ford said slowly, “so I hope you don’t freak out.”

Molly wasn’t exactly shocked—she should’ve seen it from a mile away, really—but it was hard to believe that a whole town had Markless people.

Ford sent the stoic waiter on his way and told Molly, “Southend is kinda like a safehouse for people like me. It could’ve been for you, too.”

A knowing grin crept up his usually friendly features, and Molly swore her own gloved hand trembled on her lap. In her panicked mind, she swore that the grin turned almost cold, calculating, and a tad creepy.

All of a sudden, the smirk faltered and Ford looked fairly normal again. He let out  weary sigh and rolled his bright green eyes. “Okay, I’ll come clean. When I saved you from that mugger at the station, I removed your gloves to see if the crazy hag injected you with something there—or if you hide contact details in your gloves, I mean Delia does that so why not you? I had no intention of finding out if you were marked or not.”

He said all of this very fast, and Molly didn’t know how to feel. The most logical part of her was nagging her to feel hurt and slap Ford in the face for good measure, to pack her bags and return to London early and forget about relaxing at all.

But it was very rarely that she followed logic.

When the waiter arrived several minutes later with their food and quickly left, Ford breathed another lengthy sigh as he dug into his pasta. “You probably hate me now, huh?”

Molly’s thinking part of her brain was screaming yes over and over again, but the woman herself replied, “Not really. But contact details in gloves? Really?”

Amidst all the tension and drama, another grin crept up Ford’s face—this time, not creepily.

**-*-*-*-*-*-**

“So everyone here’s Markless?”

This was the first question Molly asked Ford as they sat on the edge of a dock a few hours after their lunch. The two people kept a respectable distance from each other, because there were other couples sitting pretty closely together and Molly and Ford didn’t want to be associated as an item.

Ford tossed her a sidelong glance. “Well, no. Occasionally, researchers flock here to see what trend causes Marklessness—like it’s a disease.” He spat this more to the ocean than to Molly in such a spiteful and bitter tone that Molly wished she hadn’t spoiled his mood by asking.

“Well, of course, but does everyone who live here permanently have nothing on their hands?” asked Molly again, hoping she didn’t trigger anything else.

Ford glanced at her again, this time a bit more softly, and replied, “Not all the time—I mean, the children of Markless people aren’t necessarily Markless too, and that’s what gets the researchers befuddled—but mostly, yeah.”

“So you—”

“Yeah, I’m not a native here,” he said with a cool shrug, “but I’ve quite a lot of my life here that I might as well be.”

“And Delia?”

“She’s from London, but when she turned eighteen…like me…she left for here,” explained Ford. “I remember her being bitter toward Greg, but I guess time mellowed her out.”

“How about—”

Ford turned his whole body to face Molly this time, and he gravely told her, “Tell me anyone’s name here and I probably know why they’re here.” He pointed casually to a teenager staring at the horizon several meters away from them. “He’s a new arrival from Cardiff, and he’s an eighteen-year-old who chose estrangement than embarrassment from his family.”

Molly looked up at him in awe. Did he know everyone’s story here? “H-how about her?” she pointed discreetly to an elderly woman ambling away from the dock.

“Mrs. Graham’s a childless widow,” replied Ford again. “You can see why she’s here.”

"But why're _you_ here?" she asked him. "Aside from the obvious reason."

Ford looked at her for a long time, then he said, "Orphaned. The sea ate up my family." 

Oh. Molly felt, though, that she had insensitively quizzed Ford about town gossip, and about his dark past, and she told him so.

“I don't mind, Molly” he replied as he and Molly stood. “Come on; Delia’ll boil me alive if I don’t get you before supper,” he added as he playfully ruffled Molly’s hair.

Molly, however, was only relieved that Ford didn’t see the cogs working in her mind. 


	5. Southend Vacay Part Three + What’s Been Happening in London

Still, Ford hated too much socializing. After the first day with Molly, Ford had not visited her, and the weekend was fast approaching.

“I told you not to mind that fellow, Molly,” Delia told Molly sternly. “Too much people time kills that man. Why, he locks himself in his place for a whole week straight sometimes.”

Molly could only sigh. Of course, she shouldn’t have expected anything of her newfound friend; after all, she did know that he wasn’t the most social butterfly on earth. Still, it had been three whole days since their last encounter, and it was a bit unsettling, to be honest.

However, she felt that she didn’t know him that much to visit him on her own accord, so she resigned to hoping nothing bad happened to him and decided to get to know Delia better.

“I guess Ford already told you about my…thing, since you’re looking at me like that,” said Delia, unwittingly making Molly guilty. “Yeah, it’s true. I’ve spent almost my whole adult life here in Southend because of that, and it kinda makes me miss London sometimes, especially when I know that my brother’s living his life there without worrying about his whole existence...”

It made Molly even sadder.

**--**--*

It was the second week of Molly’s vacation, and it had been quite productive even without Ford—she had long accepted that the bloke was probably another insensitive twat like Sherlock. Molly had been baking every other day with the Wesley twins, and she was at the moment in their flat, mixing up a batch of chocolate cupcakes.

“I’m allergic to nuts, though,” said Bea Wesley wistfully as her brother Seth sprinkled chopped peanuts on three of the nine tins. The girl turned to Molly. “How about you?”

Molly gave the girl a bright smile and replied, “No, but nutty cupcakes do get boring. Do you like chocolate chips, though?” She held up and shook a jar of tiny dark chocolate chips.

Bea looked at the airtight container and nodded eagerly. “Can you put lots on mine?”

A deft hand promptly sprinkled half a handful of choco chips each on the remaining cupcake molds; Molly never said a word.  

She left not long after, lingering a bit only to taste the cupcakes and to make sure that the twins’ aunt had made it home on time. She was standing outside the Wesley home, knowing that the cottage was two blocks away, but not quite going in its direction.

“I thought Delia’s place was _that_ way?”

Truth be told, perhaps she really knew why she wasn’t heading there, but Ford still surprised Molly. “You’re back?”

Ford peered at her, feigning annoyance. “I never left.” Then he curtly nodded and went his not-so-merry way to a random bistro.

_But you did._

With a weary sigh, Molly quickly spun to the opposite direction she was going, nearly tripping in the process. The sounds of thunder overhead were not promising at all, and when Molly returned to the cottage, she was already half-soaked, and even Toby didn’t want to be near her.

And the sweetness of the chocolate cupcakes cloyed even further in her mouth.

**---**

Back at London, Sherlock was throwing a fit in 221B.

“Why hasn’t she gotten back?” he muttered almost rabidly. He was stomping all over the place, and John was resigned to sit on an armchair. “That git Dr. Potter won’t let me in the morgue!”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, Dr. Potter was doing his job, and Molly deserves to get away from London… _and_ _you_ …after what happened.”

Sherlock looked at John like the latter had grown yet another imbecilic head. “It’s been two weeks, John; she has never held a grudge for that long.”

“Well maybe now you’ve set a world record,” retorted John quickly. He shook his head violently, stood up, and made his way for the door. He looked like he was never going to turn back, but no; the doctor looked over his shoulder, his face marred with disdain.

“I can’t believe I’m soulmates with you, _William_ _Sherlock_ _Scott_. It’s like Fate hates me.”

**--**--**

Mycroft was unoccupied—a miracle in itself, for he rarely even had the time to rest in between diplomatic meetings and negotiations. He was in his office, though, rapidly typing bunches of codes into his laptop. Usually, he hated even such easy legwork like this, because it was still legwork nonetheless, but boredom needed anything—even legwork, hell—to quiet down.

“Boarded a train to Southend, but got interrupted on the trip when mugged by a certain…ah, Jane Flynn,” he whispered to himself. Loudly, he said, “Anthea, are there any muggers known as Jane Flynn, of Southend-on-Sea?”

It took a few moments, but Anthea promptly answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Is she arrested?” asked Mycroft again.

“Yes, sir,” came Anthea’s usual reply.

Well, that was boring, and the lack of anything else to do was irritating, so Mycroft decided to play with his PA’s extremely brief and possibly even careless replies. “Shall you join me for dinner in that certain town?” he asked, saying all his words very, very fast.

“Yes, sir,” was Anthea’s exasperated reply, and it took a full thirty seconds before she realized and, most probably, wished to take it back. But it was thirty seconds too late.

_My, this is fun._

**---**---**

Ford always haunted the entrance to Southend, so much that most of the kids called him a ghost, and that night was no exception. Nightfall was often when new arrivals entered, and Ford, no matter how cold he was known to be, had the decency to keep an eye on anyone like him.

Every time he leaned against a post, monitoring for any lost-looking youth or the occasional sullen widow(er), memories of his relative youth flooded him, but no tears, of course (he was—what?—48). He had chanced upon Southend many decades ago, a successful escapee from the prison known as his family home.

After what seemed to be hours, Ford saw the harsh, glaring lights of a car, a car he hadn’t noticed recently. It couldn’t have been visitors—most prefer arriving during the day, when the amusement parks and restaurants were all open.

 _Maybe a wealthy clan_ , he thought bitterly, _and they’ll drop off their ‘defective’ kid_.

Abandoning based on Marklessness was considered illegal, when the abandoned Markless didn’t want to be left alone, but it was a mostly unimplemented rule, and Ford silently cursed all the policemen who just let the law just go stale. He made a mental note to show the new kid around, probably call them ‘son’ or ‘lass’—he was getting old, after all, and he had long passed the ‘big brother’ stage.

However, when the doors opened, there was no hapless young teen waiting to be left behind. There was only a normal couple. Ford squinted his eyes to see not parents—just a random couple, although he was right about them being filthy rich. 

Nevertheless, it seemed that the lack of person to save made Ford leave in haste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tossed in some Johnlock there, FINALLY.


	6. UPDATE (AFTER MORE THAN A YEAR IM SO SORRY)

Oh my god what a mess I've left.

I wrote this over a year ago, during my summer vacation. Now, it's summer vacation again, and I wanted to belatedly pick this back up.

Then I looked over my writing and said "Nope, can't just edit that."

This fic will be given a huge overhaul, hopefully for the better. I will still include Sherrinford, though, despite all that has happened in Season 4. Eurus will, of course, be integrated into this mess, but Sherrinford remains. I'm still planning how to connect the character in this fic to the institution in the actual episode, but he stays. (Also, in-denial me insists that there's a fourth Holmes sibling because "people always stop after three").

I'll finish writing the whole fic first before even posting chapter one, so I won't leave you guys in the air again. Thank you for understanding and see ya :)

\- Q


End file.
